


See What I See

by myownremedy



Series: Casualties [2]
Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Casualties, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Sadness, feelings!!!!, ifrit who was also a cab driver, originally for class, post 9/11 new york, salim the cab driver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:32:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownremedy/pseuds/myownremedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Salim blinks back tears. ‘I wish you could see what I see,’ he says.<br/>‘I do not grant wishes,’ whispers the ifrit, dropping his towl and pushing Salim gently, but irresistibly, down onto the bed.”<br/>— Neil Gaiman, American Gods, pg.190</p><p>What happens to Salim after his encounter with the Ifrit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See What I See

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Хочу, чтоб ты видел то, что вижу я](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5020579) by [sige_vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sige_vic/pseuds/sige_vic)



> All quotes are from the anniversery edition of American Gods.  
> Disclaimer: Characters copyright to Neil Gaiman, I made no money, it's canon that they're gay, no copyright infringement intended, blablabla.  
> The title is from that first quote.  
> This is the second part of the series and the sadder one. Also I am obviously a white queer cis female and not an arabic and muslim queer male; I acknowledge this, but I didn't do anything that would exploit the character (Salim). I am simply trying to write him as he is.  
> There's a vague description of 9/11 in here, that could be triggering for some folks.  
> edit (4-13-15): this is a transformative work. I make no money off of it. I do not own what inspired this work (American Gods), but I do own this work itself and hold full copyright over it. Thank you.  
> (5-16-17): this was written about the book not the tv show!! so if you're here because of the show, welcome, but we're going to take an abrupt right hand turn from the tv show's canon.

“The war had begun and nobody saw it.”

— Neil Gaiman, _American Gods_ , p. 372

Being a cab driver is easy – too easy, in fact. Salim has too much time to brood over his family, his past life, the way he was treated as an Arab in New York, and perhaps most of all, the Ifrit.

He has always aspired to make his family proud, to bring glory to them in honor of Allah, to be successful and worthy so that he would be loved. He had aspired to be so much more than a cab driver.

But that’s what he is, and he drives in streets that went north to south, and he quickly learns that he is not allowed to pray five times a day here in America, because they do not care about him or his religion.

His customers do not like to talk to him. They see him as a means to get from one side of the city to the other, not as a human, not as something that lives and breathes and feels.

He notices that most other cab drivers call each other and talk on their cellphones as they drive, racing around New York City just slow enough to keep it legal. He wishes he had someone to talk to, someone to call and talk to about his day, or his passengers, or his adventure to find the best falafel in New York City. He wishes he had someone to speak to in Arabic, someone to share his thin morning bread with, someone to talk to about Oman with.

More than once, he wishes he could talk to the Ifrit and ask him what he is doing, if he has returned and assumed Salim’s identity and met Salim’s family, or if he has abandoned all pretenses of civilization and wandered away.

            The day that the planes fly in and crashed into the towers, traffic grounds to a stand still and people get out of their cars and point to the sky with trembling fingers. Their hushed whispers grow into shouts. They abandon their cars and flee.

            Salim, burdened by curiosity, drives to a bridge and watches the towers fall, watches small figures jump and watches a light sheet of ash blanket the city. He wonders if a war was coming, and if so, how has he missed the signs? How have all of them missed this?

            He wanders to a bar and watches the news, watches them report that Al Qaeda had sent the planes, and he is rewarded by funny looks. He can feel tension wrapping around every body in the building, and he wonders how America can generalize all of the Middle East as _enemy_. He wonders if anyone will listen to him explain that he was from Oman and that they are quite civilized, thanks, and he had no part in this attack on America’s beautiful city.

 

“The storm was lowering and nobody knew it.”

— Neil Gaiman, _American Gods_ , p. 372

            But if America is anything, it is resilient, and even as people are pulled from the wreckage, the city refuses to sleep. Traffic resumes. People still need taxis. Salim drives and drives and stops listening to the news or the Arabic Music Station. He listens to classic rock instead, trying to reassure his passengers that he is American, like they are, that he likes The Eagles and Fleetwood Mac and that his accent will fade with time.

            Not everyone is convinced. As he heads home, perhaps two months after the attacks, five men pull him from his taxi and beat him until he is curled up into a ball, sobbing, the snow scraping his thin coat. When he heads into work the next morning, he sees that he is not the only one that had been attacked, and two of his fellows offer him an ice bag to press to his swelling forehead. He feels solidarity for the first time in many months. They ignore his thanks and touch his shoulders gently, and he murmurs to them in Arabic – murmurs that they return.

            The attacks on the city have brought both America and the ‘Arab’ population in America closer. Conscious that they are being targeted for crimes they did not commit, his fellow taxi drivers and Salim are careful to avoid attracting attention. More than ever they listen to classic rock and talk in English. They adopt jeans and button down shirts, and trim their beards. They pray in private, only once or twice a day. They hide their holy books and wonder why America, which claims to be a place for the free, restricts them in this way.

            One day, Salim dreams about the Ifrit. He has not let himself think of the Ifrit since 9/11, and he has not dared to find someone to share his bed. So this dream is cruel, because he is abruptly shot through with longing as he gazes on the stern face with the eyes of fire and thick black beard. But that image wavers, and the Ifrit shimmers and then is an indistinct being of fire. Only his face remains the same, and it is on his face that Salim focuses. He has no name to cry out and no real claim to the Ifrit, but he misses him.

            “Salim,” the Ifrit says. In his dream, Salim does not say anything, but he is listening so hard that all of his body is prickling, concentrating, focused.

            “Salim,” the Ifrit says again. “Come home.”

            He wakes, then, and stares at the rain falling outside his window. Home? Where is home? And how is he supposed to get there?

            He does not sleep again that night, and so he is grateful when his shift finally starts. His first customer of the day is an older white man missing an eye and dressed in a suit.

            “Where too?” Salim asks quietly. He is still half-thinking about the Ifrit, about his dream.

            “Hm,” the man says, scratching his stubble. “How about the airport?”

            They drive in silence for a time. The old man is staring out the window. Salim wonders where the man’s luggage is.

            When they are waiting at a particularly long red light, Salim clears his throat.

“Have you forgotten your luggage, sir?”

            The man looks around in surprise. “Oh. No.” He smiles. “I’m travelling light.”

            Salim nods and wishes that he hadn’t said anything. Before, he had wanted someone to talk to. Now he only wants to be left alone. But the older man was eying him curiously.

            “Salim,” the older man says, and Salim jolts because that is not the name that is on his ID, not the name he has gone by for a long time, “who do you worship?”

            It does not occur Salim to lie, or to deny his name. “Allah,” he says quietly. “I worship Allah.”

            “I see.” And Salim suddenly thinks that yes, the old man really did see, really did understand, even if he was old and white and only had one eye.

            As they pull up to the terminal, the old man smiles at him. “Be careful, Salim. There’s strange folk in New York. You’ll never know who you’re going to meet.”

            Salim nods. He knows this. He wonders if the man’s eye patch concealed an eye socket of flame. He wonders just who the man is, and how he knew Salim’s name.

            He loiters at the terminal for a while until he picks up another passenger, and this passenger does not talk to him at all, for which Salim is perversely grateful. He winds through the streets and listens to _Hotel California_ and thinks about the Ifrit.

 _Come home_ , he had said. But Salim does not know where the Ifrit means. He is a displaced person, without a real identity. America will never accept him. His family probably thinks him dead. He wonders, not for the first time, how many other people this has happened to. He does not think that his story is a unique one. He sees himself as every other white American sees him: interchangeable with every other Arab taxi driver.

            “Watch out!” His passenger suddenly yells, and Salim refocuses in time to see everything black out.

            _I’m coming,_ he thinks to the Ifrit as the car skids out of control. The steering wheel twists out of control. _I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m com–_

“A falling girder in Manhatten closed a street for two days. It killed two pedestrians, an Arab taxi driver and the taxi driver’s passenger.”

— Neil Gaiman, _American Gods_ , p. 372

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [tumblr!](http://marnz.tumblr.com/) prompts welcome.


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